


i've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool for a while now.

by thrives



Series: you know the two of us are just young gods. [2]
Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Banter, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fools in Love, JD being a dick, Post-Coital Cuddling, Shameless Smut, im NOT trying to romanticize or glorify domestic abuse, it's part of the story so yeahhh, major angst, sorry - Freeform, the tags are there for a reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives
Summary: The trajectory of their relationship has never been a straight line. It's a crooked thing, bent and bloody and shaped like a broken cross from the church she doesn't visit anymore.





	i've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool for a while now.

**Author's Note:**

> pure smut. literally. just. smut. and angst ofc who do you think i am????

 

# I'VE BEEN SITTING AT THE BOTTOM OF A SWIMMING POOL FOR A WHILE NOW.

 

Monday morning is perfectly ordinary and strangely perfect: cloudless skies, _sun's out!_ says the weatherman cheerily, seedless cherries for breakfast and a strange ache in her chest. The sky is a dreamy suburbia blue, so pure and full Veronica swears she's never seen that shade before. She tells this to JD when he picks her up in his car—a sleek, wood-paneled 1988 Mercury Grand Marquis courtesy of Big Bud Dean's Construction—and he gives her a lazy, bloodless smirk.

"Sure you have," he says. "Heather's little blue cup, remember?"

She sinks down in her seat, the memory raw as a puckered wound. Pulling the over-sized sleeves of her blazer over her balled fists, she gives him a dreamy smile, hoping to God her discomfort won't show. Despite her best efforts, JD notices. She can tell by the way his eyes rove over her hands, the way his jaw tenses slightly. To his credit, he merely starts the car and starts humming along to the obnoxious song playing on the radio. " _Great_ song," he shouts over the thrumming bass. "Absolutely brilliant."

Veronica gives him a dry look. As if to prove her point, a raspy male voice croons, "Teeeenage suiciiiiiiide? Don't do it."

JD laughs, the kind of beautiful, deep-throated laugh that sort of makes her want to cry. How can he sit here beside her, tossing his head back as he grins, the long, fine bones of his fingers resting gracefully on the steering wheel, brimming with this sweet transience that makes her inexplicably, mournfully hollow; how can he bear it? It takes her breath away, the sheer joy of his presence. There is something  _off_ still, something sickly and rotting, a cruel shift of his lips, perhaps, or nothing at all—but Veronica sees none of it.

"They make it sound so simple," he says, one hand cupping her knee. Those searing eyes find hers, his pupils dilated and black, so black she can see her minature reflection. She wants so badly to kiss him that when they come to a red light, JD screeches to a halt (a godawful driver, her boy,  _"promise i'm better on the motorbike_ ," she remembers him murmuring hoarsely into the swell of her breasts) and she wants him to pull over and fuck her  _right there._

Instead, she tugs on her seat belt. "Isn't it?" she asks, staring down at the chipped blue remnants of her nail polish.

"Oh, sure," he says, amused. "A couple of bucks for some underhand sleeping pills. A ceiling fan and a noose. Or, if you want to be dramatic, a razor blade and a bathtub."

"Oh, god," Veronica groans, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, "don't you start."

He leans into her touch, the engine purring as he floors the gas pedal. She presses her nose into the soft, worn material of his undershirt and inhales deeply. He smells like cigarette smoke and cologne; she wants to bottle the scent and drink it in. "Wanna ditch, V?" he says hazily, his elbow digging into her right breast. It hurts like hell and she presses down, every nerve in her body narrowing in on that sole point. Around JD, her head never works quite right. It's like she's underwater, everything blurry and blue and just out of reach.  

"I can't miss chem again," she says, knowing fully well that she can.

JD laughs. "Liar."

"Don't you care about my education?"

He gives her a look that's positively _feral_. "Ever had sex in a car, sweetheart?"

Heat pools between her legs and she untangles her hands from his hair, not trusting herself to look at him. He's still driving and if he says one more thing, she might pounce on him and potentially kill both of them. "I bet you haven't," he continues with that triumphant look on his face, "you're too much of a goody-goody two shoes for that. It's such a pity, too. I know the perfect place."

And she knows he's trying to provoke her into doing what he wants, this sly manipulation disguised as playful banter, but she falls for it every time. "You know what..."

Veronica looks at him for the first time that morning with shining clarity, at the angular lines of his face, the dark, unkempt hair and the slavic cheekbones, the rich golden brown of his eyes, the fine red mouth and the freckles dotted across his shoulder blades, and she  _loves_ him, loveshim so much, and it makes sense, it's the only thing she's ever known to be true, a deep, bloodied, visceral thing.

"You're asking me to choose sex over education?" she asks, batting her lashes.

"I don't give a damn about your education," he says roughly, ever the romantic, and pulls over to the side of the road to kiss her. 

  

 

* * *

 

 

"I can't get it on," he mutters into her mouth. She's straddling him, her bra discarded somewhere in the backseat, strands of hair falling across her face. JD's still fully dressed, pants and boxers pulled down to reveal his hardened cock. The tip brushes against her navel and Veronica's stomach swoops, longing to cup him in her hands, to put her mouth around him, to watch as he comes undone.

"The condom," he says a little irritably when she ignores him. "Will you try?"

"Save it for later," she murmurs, looping her arms around his neck and arching her hips. "Wanna try something first." His nimble fingers find the waistband of her underwear, but she stills his hand. Slipping down, she braces her hands on his thighs and looks up at him with wide eyes. "Is this okay?" she breathes, and he nods just barely, tipping his head back, throat bobbing. Her first thought is how warm his cock feels in her hands, and her second thought is how he tastes, like skin and salt, like holy water and the same as any seventeen year old boy. In this moment, they aren't murderers or outcasts or teenagers. In this moment, they are _lovers,_  disembodied from the rest of the world, his half-formed, guttural pleas like fire to her blood. Before she can savor the feeling, he's pulling her up, splaying his hands on her stomach.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he says wonderingly.

She smiles. "You."

"You minx," and he's thrusting a hand into her hair, tugging hard enough to pinch her scalp. His other hand brushes her breast, her nipples tightening in response, and JD pulls her mouth down to his. Veronica is so wet that she's soaked through her underwear, and she kisses him back hungrily, forcefully, her breasts heavy and aching. " _Fuck,_ " she gasps when he slides two, three fingers inside her, testing, a fourth finger brushing over her clit, and he's pressing a condom into her hand, saying, "Put it fucking _on_."

She's good at it. She's phenomenal at putting on condoms. If only Dartmouth considered it a worthwhile skill. She grips the head of his cock and slides it on with ease, yelping when he bites her neck, pausing when he says brokenly, " _Baby_." It's piercing enough that she pulls away, and there he is, his earring crooked and his cheeks flushed and he shakes his head and she says, "What?"

"Beautiful thing," JD murmurs. "You deserve someone who'll make love to you."

Veronica laughs lightly and leans her forehead against his. "I like this even better." Before she even finishes her sentence, he thrusts his hips up and buries his cock inside her, so swiftly she loses her train of thought. Her back hits the steering wheel and she whines, wanting to move, the sensation too much, too pleasurable, but he holds her place, forcing her to feel every inch, and she exhales with a shuddering breath. His cock is positioned against the most sensitive part of her cunt and she knows he's doing it purposefully.

"I wanna..." she breathes, sinking further down onto his cock and enjoying the way his breath hitches, "let me."

He grips her ass with both hands and leans forward, kissing her collarbone with tender lips, too slow, so horribly slow, and says, "You wanna what?"

"You know what," she grits out as he lowers his mouth to her breast, tongue flicking over her nipple. "I'm afraid I don't," JD says, breath ghosting over her peaked nipples, squeezing her ass for good measure.  _Oh_ , there's that cocky, insufferable side of him. He's still so deep inside her, but he won't fucking let her move.

"I wanna ride you," she says, "so  _fucking_ let me."

"That's my girl," and he shifts, knocking the seat belt with his hand in the process. Veronica bits his lip hard enough to draw blood and draws her body high, bouncing slightly on his cock, her walls closing in on his shaft with every movement, and JD moans into her mouth, and every ounce of self-control she once had is gone. His hands find their way around her throat, thumbs pressing down, down, _down_ , painful and arousing all at once. She pants, rolling her hips forward so that her nipples brush his chest. His hands move to her hair and he grasps a handful, yanking so she's pressed so tightly against him Veronica can't tell who's breathing for who.

Slacking against JD, Veronica lets him do some of the work. His fingers stroke her clit as he thrusts and murmurs dirty, _dirty_ things into the shell of her ear, and he's coaxing sin from her with those lips, and she's kneeling at his altar, begging, begging, begging.

When she meets his gaze, the pure violence in his eyes startles her and soothes her. In the moments before her climax, she can never be sure if he wants to kiss or to kill.  _Fatal attraction_ , she thinks, and slumps forward with the force of her orgasm, eyes rolling back in her head.

JD comes with a shout a moment later and she slams into the steering wheel again, the horn blaring for a few terrifying seconds before he pulls her back, panting and pulling out slickly, palming her cheek, and Veronica closes her eyes. His hand is rough and warm against her skin, and then he says, "I love you."

She opens her eyes and smiles, tilting her head into his touch, reaching up to cover his hand with hers. How strange and volatile he is, one moment brutal and the next gentle. Where did he come from, she wonders, and what was life like without him? She can't remember—doesn't want to. "I hate you," Veronica tells him, not meaning a word of it. "I hate you. I swear to God."

He sucks on her middle finger. "Swear to me instead, V."

And she does.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Veronica fixes her hair in the rear-view mirror and moves to the backseat, rooting around for her bra. JD watches her with a smirk on his face, eyes pinned to her breasts.

"You're a horny eleven year old," she says, and he doesn't argue.

"What can I say? It's not a bad view," he drawls.

She throws her hairbrush at his face, but he catches it in one hand without blinking. "You're going to have to try better than that, baby."

"I just fucked your brains out," Veronica says haughtily. "Have some respect."

She moves to the passenger seat, tugging her skirt down. JD stretches his legs out on the backseat, arms behind his head, and says, "C'mere."

He's shirtless now, dressed only in those plaid boxers. The outline of his cock, the rippling muscle of his abdomen, the pristine skin and the golden freckles. She has to catch her breath. "Are you real?" she wonders aloud, then realizes and wrinkles her nose, hating how sentimental she sounds. Their relationship is anything but. And then he's smirking again, but suddenly his smile grows quiet, intimate, and he says, "Yes. _Yes_."

So she curls up next to him (bra on this time), tangling her legs in his. "I love you," she says. "Even when I'm not high off an orgasm."

JD kisses her nose and says, "Young love sounds like such bullshit, doesn't it? And then somehow, it isn't." It's an admission. It fills her heart with something so buoyant and delicate that she's afraid she'll speak and it'll shatter. Veronica drowns out the rest of the world and kisses him, long and slow. The atmosphere shimmers, becoming pale blue and water-thin. She likes it down here, at the bottom of the swimming pool. The rules are different. The world is changed. She can love without cost, wash her hands clean.

It's strange, this love. It feels like breathing and drowning at all once. It feels like losing oxygen and learning to live without it. Veronica Sawyer is becoming a girl underwater, and it feels like home.

"Look at the sky," she says. JD obeys, then quirks an eyebrow.

"Tell me you've never seen that shade of blue before," she says.  _Tell me you've never seen this shade of blue. Am I the only one underwater, love?_

He's uncharacteristically quiet. Then, "My mother's eyes were that color."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Veronica considers this. Carefully, she says, "She must have been wonderful."

"She was alright," JD says. His voice is measured. "She was a mother. Every boy loves his mother, right?" There's that bitter edge leaking into his voice.

"No," she tells him. "Not every boy loves his mother."

She doesn't expect him to smile the way he does. It's sinister and gripping and she lets go of his hand, frightened. "JD?"

"Don't be stupid, Veronica," he says smoothly. "You're not a Heather, remember?"

The slap across her face is a brilliant flash of red and she goes loose and numb, floating through an empty expanse of space, until she blinks and JD's remorseless eyes are staring blankly ahead, and he looks so beautiful and saintlike and brilliant and  _yes,_ that's her  _lover_ , to cherish and touch and feel the ridges of his spine beneath her fingertips, and  _oh,_  there's that familiar sensation of sinking, sinking into deep blue water, because he's killed Heather in cold blood and he is killing  _her_  and it's so  _fucked,_ so  _surreal,_ because here is a  _goddamn_  murderer and his blows feel as gentle as a caress.

 _But I love him_ , she thinks feebly.  _Isn't this his way of loving me? He doesn't know any better, and neither do I._

She holds a hand to her stinging cheek. This shouldn't be any different from the choking and hair-pulling and pent-up aggression—yet, it feels different. It feels _wrong_. "Why did you do that?" she asks, her voice small and sad. JD pulls her close and buries his face in her hair, wrapping long arms around her, enveloping her in his warmth. He's shaking now, she can feel it. When he pulls back, his face is twisted. "I'm sorry," he breathes, and holds her like she might disappear. "I'm sorry, V."

And like a fool, she forgives him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trajectory of their relationship has never been a straight line. It's a crooked thing, bent and bloody and shaped like a broken cross from the church she doesn't visit anymore.

Every kiss is a gift. Every time they make love, every time he lays out down on the bed with aching tenderness and kisses down her stomach. Every time they have a quick screw, teeth scraping and clothes flung across the floor and marks on her body. Every time he smiles. Every time he laughs. Every time he squeezes her hand or comes up behind her and drapes his arms around her neck. Every time he waits by her locker, looking like a god in black, kissing her in front of the Heathers until she can smell their jealousy. Every time he lends her a CD, or buys her a cherry slushie from the Snappy Snack Shack, or takes her out on his motorcycle in the pouring rain just so he can kiss her with chattering teeth and lashes slick with water. Every time. Every  _fucking_ time. They're seventeen and she feels so damn lucky to have a beautiful boy to love, to share her youth, her sex, her sardonic jokes, a boy who humors her efforts at croquet, who tucks her hair behind her ear and tells her that she's beautiful with an absent-mindedness that feels true.

And every time he promises that he'll be better, she remembers the gleeful surprise on his face after Heather's death. She remembers the remorseless eyes of a killer. She remembers the bruise across her cheekbone she had to hide with concealer for a week. She remembers these things, and then forgets them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> choke me daddy ;)
> 
> k leave me kudos and comments and i'll love u always


End file.
